


Ahreddan

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, F/M, Gen, Panic Attacks, The Price of Fame, tros premiere, we're all only human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:30:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22353148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Ahreddan is the Old English word for 'rescue or save'.We all have one person who knows what to do, and how to 'rescue' us.
Relationships: Adam Driver/Daisy Ridley
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34
Collections: Anonymous





	Ahreddan

**Author's Note:**

> Of course none of us really know if Adam struggles with an anxiety disorder, but there have been pretty public moments where it seems evident that he's struggling. This is just an interpretation of this, as well as a way to acknowledge that anxiety doesn't discriminate.
> 
> As with most RPF, this is not to disrespect the people themselves. It's just an observation, interpretation and creative outlet.

They’re late.

  
He knows they’re late, and it is doing nothing to ease his anxiety.

He’s hunched against the passenger door. His right elbow is propped on the window, fist tightly clenched pressing into his cheek. His left arm crosses his stomach, and the fingers of his hand are gripping the door handle as if threatening to wrench open the door and make a quick escape.

The driver is all business, hands gripping the wheel occasionally flexing his fingers. It’s always so awkward when there’s someone else there to witness these moments. And although he knows that these staff are professionals, and they by and large keep quiet on these situations, there is always that small feeling of doubt. It just takes one slip up in a public situation, for the wrong person to hear… Twitter will be alight.

He looks down at the phone in his hand, and the black screen glares back up at him. He keeps running his right thumb over the glass; the mild fascination of the way the smudges refract the early evening sunset. His screen suddenly jumps to life, startling him and he makes an involuntary grunt.

He unlocks the phone and checks the text message.

It’s PR: WHERE ARE YOU?

He sends a hasty reply: 5 mins. Bad traffic.

His eyes slide back to the window.

The message omits the moment he had to ask the driver to stop abruptly part way to the theatre, as he thought he was going to throw up. His anxiety always goes straight to his stomach; twisting and squeezing it through the gastric wringer. Then it spreads to his lungs where it deflates them, leaving him gasping for air. Finally his heart capers off like an over-excited derby day horse. If he’s lucky he doesn’t throw up, cry and hyperventilate all at the same time.   
Otherwise, it’s a shit show.

This time, he manages to retain the contents of his stomach (admittedly it’s only a weak cup of black tea in there, with about 5 sugars).

The driver’s empathy is legitimate though. There’s genuine concern in his eyes, and he offers a bottle of energy drink which is gratefully accepted, if only for the distraction the process of drinking it offers.

He’s touched.

And then… they arrive.

He feels the earlier consumed energy drink bubbling up, and the burning in his throat. He can’t do this.

Not at all.

The car slows.

He grips his phone tighter, sliding his nails between the case and the screen. He picks aggressively at the join and grinds his teeth while grimacing almost comically. He just wants to scream.

The door opens, and security offer a hand for him to step out of the car.

He slides across the back seat slowly, trying to even out his breathing. He has found it’s just easier to plunge straight in with these things, and not overthink it too much.

“Good luck, sir. I hope your night improves.” The driver offers a small amount of encouragement.

Of course he’s overthinking the whole thing as he climbs out of the car.

The noise of the fans is deafening, and the cameras are creating a myriad of disorientating lights. He knows he’s not the first celebrity to be spooked by the public, but it doesn’t make him feel much better about the situation.

Somewhere though, he reaches deep and finds a characterisation to hold on to. It’s the one of an actor who is cool, calm and collected.  
Distant if you will.  
He’s a familiar character, but possibly the hardest to play.  
The character answers questions, waves at fans and signs autographs.  
It’s almost effortless.

Almost.

The problem with playing a character is that eventually it needs to come to an end.  
You can’t live your life being somebody else, in a story that someone else is writing and you have no total control over.

The story comes to an abrupt end when the cast are corralled into a holding area, waiting for the next act of the media circus.  
He feels his grip on the character falling away, spiralling, as a swirl of red overtakes his vision.

He finds himself pulled aside into a small alcove. It’s not completely hidden, but private enough that there will be no interference for a few minutes.

The sudden departure from character always leaves him a little disorientated, and even a bit dizzy. He feels the world tilt a little on its axis, and he has to hold a hand out to steady himself on a makeshift wall.

A smaller, paler hand reaches out and covers his. It’s cool, and smooth, and has a sudden effect of grounding.

“You’re not okay… are you?”

The voice is quiet. It’s more a statement of fact than a question.

The British politeness makes it more of a query though.

He swallows, and lets out a small laugh, “I’ve been better. But you know the score.”

“I do.”

The other hand goes up to lay against his cheek, and he starts to feel the anxiety melt away little by little. He closes his eyes momentarily, and then slowly opens them to gaze down upon the vision in red.

“Better?”

A deep breath, that feels cleansing more than if he’s fighting for air.

“Yes. Thank you.”

She smiles gently up at him, her eyes crinkling at the outer edges.

“I’m glad you came. I was beginning to worry.”

“So was I,” he responds truthfully. He could never lie to her.

The hand that is still on his cheek slides down to settle on his shoulder. The other hand that covers his own, curls around his fingers. He knows his palms are sweaty, but it doesn’t bother her.   
He grips on to her, and their entwined hands move to his side.

“I’ve missed you,” he stumbles over the words a bit. He wants to say many more things, but he doesn’t trust himself. Not right this minute.

“I’ve missed you too.”

They stand another few seconds, looking at each other.

The noise and the fanfare is fading away slightly, so it’s a background hum.

This is what it feels like when he’s acting a scene, except right now… he’s not acting.

There is no character at play.

“I… I’ve missed you so much.”

He doesn’t really know what else to say. He just grips on to her fingers, and she runs her thumb along the side of his hand.

Her eyes are suddenly damp, and he can see the tears threaten to spill over.

Suddenly one escapes, and rolls down her cheek, taking a small amount of liner and mascara with it. Her breath hitches slightly.

He feels his throat bob as he swallows hard. There’s that damn lump that gets in the way, stops him from breathing.

The tears are threatening, and his damn nose is dripping.

He’s so famous for bringing emotion to his characters.

The reality is much less glamorous.

Her chin scrunches up as she bites her lip. Hard.

She looks like she’s going to say more, but suddenly music is swelling and someone is razzing up the crowd outside.

She stretches up to ghost a kiss on the edge of his mouth, lest she smudge her lipstick.

She presses her cheek against his and whispers in his ear:

“Come and see me in London.  
Please.”

She kisses his earlobe this time, then quickly turns and disappears.

He closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. Her perfume is still lingering, and it calms him. The imprint of her hand is still on his cheek.

PR come over, and hustle him into the ragtag group that is forming to re-emerge into the publicity maelstrom.

He feels his phone vibrate, deep in his pocket and fishes it out with fumbling fingers.

It’s a message from her.

Before he can open it, they’re pushed forward further towards the wings.

Suddenly he’s standing there with her. Her eyes meet his, and she gives him a small, encouraging smile. She’s wringing her hands slightly.

He smiles back, a secret and peaceful smile for her.

“Hey guys!!!”

A 6ft 11in co-star makes the world’s best, if a little unexpected, selfie stick and snaps a candid photo.

He’s taken so by surprise, that his beatific smile remains pasted in place.

And then they’re being pushed forward again, closer to the rising cheers.

He quickly unlocks his phone, and opens the message.

‘Be with me.’


End file.
